


Not Cut Out for This

by a_xmasmurder



Series: 221B's and Drabbles (Multi-Fandom) [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Boredom, Dissatisfaction, Doubt, Gen, Glimpses into the life of, Hospital, M/M, NOT POST REICHENBACH, Pre-Afghanistan through Current, School, Season Two hasn't happened yet, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-27 09:32:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_xmasmurder/pseuds/a_xmasmurder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A glimpse into the life of John Watson, Uni to Sherlock. Because Sherlock is a life event.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Cut Out for This

**Author's Note:**

> Written in its entirety in ... well, I told them two hours, but it was more like an hour, now that I think about it. 
> 
> Written in the last few hours of Write or Die weekend, before and after work. 
> 
> Thanks to Provocatrix (Provocatrixxx) for the radio discipline, I will forever hold it to my heart and fix a couple of other stories I have. :D 
> 
> Thanks to AD for just being epic.
> 
> Not Britpicked or beta'd, because...well, an hour. Really :D

John leaned back in his chair and stretched, yawning widely and blinking away the burning behind his eyelids. All-nighters sucked major balls, but if he was going to finish the assignment on time, he had to do it. Damn Stamford and his house parties. If he hadn’t gone and gotten himself royally pissed last night, he’d be asleep right now. But instead, here he was, trying to cram in as much technical words and descriptions as he possibly could to pad the wordcount enough that he’d get good marks on the paper. Damned thesis. Damned school. He rolled his neck, wincing at the cracking he could hear through his skull. God, he was bored.

“Oh, fuck this.”

He got up and poured himself another cup of tea, and leaned up against the kitchenette counter. The clock on the wall mocked him with its numbers.

“It’s half four. Argh, this is insanity.” He rubbed his eyes. “I’m not cut out for this, I think.” He walked back over to his chair and plopped down, steeling himself for another round of editing and word crunching, and sighed. “Definitely not cut out for this.”

 

* * *

 

“And that’s that.”

John looked up from the charts in his hands. “That’s what, Carl?”

Carl Brownburg dusted off his hands. “Another shift done and gone. How about you come down with me and Marcus to the pub for a few?”

John shook his head. “I’m working a triple. No can do.”

“Holy shit, Watson.” Carl shook his head. “How do you do it?”

“Gotta make the money, pay back my student debt. You know how it is.” John shrugged. He knew that Carl didn’t know how it was. He’d gotten all the scholarships, and his family had money. John’s...didn’t. He’d had to pay his way through Uni, and he was hip deep in the mire of debt. It was a struggle, but he was managing as much as he could, what with his lush of a sister sucking money off of his mum and da and him.

“Ah. Well.” Carl cleared his throat awkwardly, and John smiled at him.

“You guys go on, have fun. I’ll come along another time.”

“Alright. Have a good one.” Carl waved and walked away, and John leaned up against the door jamb and blinked hard. God, he was so exhausted. No one had to mention that this was his third triple in a row. He wasn’t even sure what day it was, let alone what his little studio flat looked like anymore. Good job that he didn’t have pets or plants to worry about. Not that he could afford them, anyway. He cracked his neck and shuffled the charts again.

“Oi, Watson, you’ve got a multiple GSW coming in. ETA ten minutes. Trauma Bay five!” Sarah, the pretty little nurse, sped past him with an armload of gauze pads.

He instantly perked up. “Great. Perfect. I’ll get ready then.” He set the charts back in his rack and moved with purpose, all exhaustion gone from his mind.

 

* * *

 

The walk home was nothing short of torture, actually. His feet hurt. His legs hurt. His back hurt, his arms and neck and head and fingers and fucking HELL, everything hurt. He was so bloody damned tired. At least he had 48 hours off now. And he was going to sleep them away. Well, between beers and crap telly and Chinese food. He narrowly avoided a collision with a scrawny man in a windcheater. His doctor’s mind instantly catagorised the poor man: underweight, barely ate, wild eyes and hair, signs of drug use and possible mental condition. The man’s grey eyes latched onto John and suddenly he felt like he was under a microscope because those eyes were knife-sharp and searching. But then they were past each other and John felt bad for the man. Poor thing probably was homeless, no food or running water or even heat. He shivered a little in pity, and pushed the man out of his mind. Compartmentalisation was key in his line of work, or he’d never get any sleep for all the cases that he worked on in Accidents and Emergencies. Gunshot wounds, knifings, muggings, rapes, car accidents, sick children, druggies, dealers, cops, grannies...He shook his head and slogged on. And for all of that, he was bored. The life of a trauma surgeon was not as exciting as he’d hoped. He usually ended up working on illnesses and little shit like stitches and mending broken bones more than the bigger things. Call him morbid and a bit not good, but he wanted...more.

God, he wanted more.

He paused, and turned around, walked back a couple buildings, and stared at the Army Recruiting Office. He blinked at it. Cocked his head and blinked at it some more. People moved around him like water, and he still stood in front of the office. In fact, he stood there so long that the recruiting officer opened the door and stared at him right back.

“Can I help you, young man?”

John shook himself out of his mind and sputtered. “Wha - wait, no.” He scowled. “Wait, yes. Yes. You can help me, actually.” He wrapped his mind around his off-the-cuff decision, and nodded. “Yes. I’d...like to sign up.” He jerked his head towards the sign on the door. “For the Army.”

The officer chewed on the inside of his cheek and took in John’s scrubs, the knapsack hooked over his shoulder, the dark circles under John’s eyes. His bedraggled look. “You’re tired, son.”

“Yep. Tired. Tired of being bored and working just to eat. I want more. Sign me up.”

“It’s gonna be hard, boy.”

“I made it through medical school. I work triple shifts at an A&E. I think I can handle it, sir.” And damned if John didn’t straighten his spine and look the officer straight in the eyes. “No, I don’t think so. I know so. Sign me up.”

“Alright. Come on in.”

 

* * *

 

“Yeowch!” John yelped, and ducked back under cover...well, what passed as cover out here in the scrub brush next to a ragged tree. He gripped his carbine a little tighter and looked over at his companion. “Murray, what the bloody fuck is Simmons waiting for, a handsigned fucking invite?”

“I don’t know, Sir.”

“Jesus fucking Christmas on a - FUCK!” He pushed Murray down and covered him with his own body as a grenade rolled past them. John held his breath, waiting for the thing to blow them to Kingdom come, but it didn’t happen. Nothing happened. John blinked.

More nothing happened.

He raised his head, and looked at the grenade.

The pin hadn’t been pulled.

“Fucking brill.” He pushed himself off of Murray and sucked in a breath. “Perfect.” A plan was forming in his head, past the shouting of the other soldiers and the OPFOR. He knew how to get to his patient. “Murray, hold the fort here. I’m going to get Percy.”

“Sir, wait - what the hell are you doing?” Murray squeaked and jerked to his knees. John pushed the man back down with a hiss.

“Stay the fuck down and just…cover me, alright?”

“You are nuts, sir.”

“And I know it.” He scanned for where the pocket of insurgents were in relation to Percy, who was still screaming over his comm. Poor kid got hit with a grenade, might have major injuries, but at least he was still alive. “Cover me, yeah?”

Murray nodded. “Yeah. Alright, you nutter.”

“I’m gonna grab that grenade and go in hot.” He thumbed his radio control. “Hello all callsigns, this is Delta One Niner Alpha. I’m heading to patient, twenty metres from OPFOR’s current positions. Cover fire is appreciated. Over.”

A chorus of “roger”s and “wilco”s made him feel a lot better about what he was about to do. He scuttled over the sand and picked up the grenade, and set up at the corner of the brush. “You ready, Murray?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be, sir.”

“Alright. Going in three...two...one!” He burst around the corner, and Murray popped up over the brush, opening up on full automatic. John kept his head down and moved as fast as he could over the sunbaked sand, and pulled the pin on the grenade. He counted off the seconds in his mind, then threw it on three. Barely two seconds later, the mini-bomb blew over the heads of the Afghani assailants, driving them to ground amidst screams of pain and horror and surprise. John couldn’t think about them right now - he had a patient to get to. He tucked and rolled under the onslaught of bullets and skidded to a halt on his knees mere feet from Percy. “Hey! Percy! Talk to me, mate!”

“Fucking SHIT this HURTS!”

John nodded and crawled the rest of the distance, then kneeled up again, confident in the cover the young grunt had managed to crawl to. He dug through his kit, pulling out everything he’d need, and kept talking. “That’s good, you can feel it, which means you’re alive, mate, and you are going to stay that way! You hear me? Don’t give up, you are going to be fine!”

Percy nodded, sweat and blood-smeared face pale and terrified. John felt for him. He really did. Poor thing. Didn’t need to be out here, where the wardogs lived. He should be at home. He shouldn’t be where John felt the most alive.

He was leaning forward to take Percy’s pulse when a camel kicked him in the back. Hard. As he toppled forward, he remembered that he hadn’t seen a camel within three klicks of this area. So if it wasn’t a camel, what was - OH FUCKING SHIT OW OW OW OW FUCKING HELL -

Percy grew paler as John groaned in agony as his shoulder blew out any thoughts he’d had. On instinct, he slapped his radio control.

“Jesus…Hello! All callsigns, fuck, this is Delta One Niner Alpha, I’ve been HIT!” He paused, sucked in a breath, and realised he hadn’t heard the shot. “Be aware. Sniper in the area, unsure of position. Out.” He crumpled to the ground, and knew it was bad. Very, very bad. He could hear people responding to his call, could hear the others around him searching for the bastard who’d hit him. His hand searched blindly for a pressure dressing, and Percy was talking to him - well, screaming at him.

“You’re gonna be alright, doc! Keep breathing, you are going to be FINE!”

Funny, he didn’t feel fine.

His last thoughts as he felt Murray’s knee against his side were as follows: Please, God, let me live; Very tired; and I’m really not cut out for this after all, am I?

 

* * *

 

Limping up the stairs to 221B, John couldn’t believe his luck. He managed to find a flatmate a couple of days before he would be kicked out of his current bedsit. The flatmate seemed to be a loner, probably kept to himself a lot. Played violin, too. That would be nice, he supposed. Probably a Bach fan or something like that. John didn’t mind. He was just happy to find a place.

Of course, it didn’t take long before all hell broke loose, beginning with a house call from Detective Inspector Lestrade. Events moved very quickly, and John realised he didn’t need his cane after all. He wasn’t going to throw it away just yet, but at least if he kept busy he wouldn’t need it. ‘Busy’ in the Holmes/Watson household meant chasing suspects, jumping around the city, cab rides with hastily giving addresses, midnight visits from ‘a concerned party’, and food at some of the best places in town.

John was happy again, and very, very busy.

It wasn’t the battlefield, but it was damn near.

Once again, he found himself staring at texts at half four in the morning. He sipped his long-cold tea and grunted, rubbing his eyes. But this time, there was a consulting detective sitting across from him, equally tired but too bullheaded to admit to it, doing the same thing. Finally, Sherlock Holmes sat back in his chair and stretched, spine re-aligning to the tune of Tchaikovsky on the record player. John rolled his shoulders, wincing as his bad one complained once more.

“Oh, fuck this, my good man.” Sherlock stood up and yawned. “We aren’t getting anywhere, and the thief isn’t going anywhere soon. Let’s take a rest.”

“Oh, happy day.” John grinned and shut the tome in front of him. “Mark it on the calendar. Sherlock Holmes admits defeat and gives in to his ‘transport’!”

Sherlock flipped him an enthusiastic finger, then took John’s hand. “Come to bed?”

John grinned, suddenly very happy that he gave up lying to himself. “Don’t mind if I do.”

They walked upstairs together.

John smiled. This, I can do. This is what I’m meant to do. Be here. With him. Forever.

Not bored now, are you, John Watson?

 

 


End file.
